Chapter 2
FINN
WHERE LEGENDS ARE MADE
Legends are made…
The year has been grueling, painful, and downright brutal. We play every game like we’re playing for the Cup. It’s balls to the wall. Every night our skates hit the ice, we go all out.
I’ve had a few scuffles this year, and then there was the three-game suspension for hitting a player after the game.
It was deserved, even though the media ate it like ice cream on the 4th of July. I took it on the chin, but the games I missed tarnished my good name.
But I shrugged it off. You can’t always be a big fish in a large pond without getting noticed.
But tonight, it’s in the past.
Tonight is the game we’ve spent the year pinning for.
And now, we’re minutes away from having our dreams made or crushed.
There’s a sound of the locker room before a game, but tonight, it’s with more energy. It’s not silence, exactly. It’s tighter than that. Tenser. Like the air itself knows what’s coming.
Game Seven.
Tied series. One more sixty-minute war and somebody walks out a champion. The other team walks out with nothing but bruises and bitterness.
I sit, lacing my skates slowly and deliberately.
If I rush, the whole night might fall apart before the puck even drops.
My gloves sit next to me like weapons. My stick’s taped just the way I like it—clean, tight, black tape with no frays.
Every inch of me is wired. My heart is hammering—blood buzzing.
This is what I live for.
The noise around me fades in and out. Guys talk. Some are too loud. Some don’t say a word, and that’s how they like it - quiet so I can focus on my game mood.
But the stadium, definitely, isn’t quiet.
The playoff virgins, like Wyatt, bounce their knees like they’re about to throw up. The vets keep their heads down because here, routines are sacred. Nobody touches their gear the wrong way. No one says the word “win” out loud.
Superstition runs deep on nights like this.
I hear someone cracking their knuckles. Someone else whispers a prayer. I breathe. In. Out. Fast, then steady.
The trainers float through like ghosts, passing water bottles, taping wrists, and slapping shoulders. The assistant coach throws out reminders—nothing we haven’t heard a hundred times. I don’t need a speech. I don’t need a pep talk. I know exactly who I am when that puck drops.
I’m the problem they can’t solve.
I look around the room and lock eyes with my teammates. We’ve come to know each other like the work husbands we are.
Together. We’ve fought and cursed and blocked shots with our bodies when our legs were shot. We’re not teammates anymore. We’re brothers in battle. And we’re thirty minutes away from the biggest one of our lives.
Coach finally steps in front of us. He doesn’t say much.
“You already know what to do,” he says. “Go take what’s yours.”
That does it.
Helmets on. Gloves up. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. I slap my stick against the floor once. The echo is loud.
Kal yells, “Let’s go!”
We file out, one by one, blades clacking down the tunnel. I hit the ice last—on purpose. I want the moment to hit me. I want to remember everything—the roar of the crowd, the brightness of the lights, and how my cold breath curls around my face.
I was made for this.
And I’ll be damned if I walk off this ice without a ring on my finger and my name carved into history.
For a second, I feel like I’m invisible. Tonight, I’m making sure I’m one of those names.
Then my world narrows when my blades hit the ice.
Everything else—noise, pressure, media, fake smiles—is gone. Out here, it’s just the puck, the rhythm of my skates, and the quiet roar of something primal that never shuts up. Sixty minutes. Twenty-second shifts.
The ice is filled with a vibe that says, “Win or die trying.”
Warm-ups don’t mean shit to most guys. They’re laughing, slapping asses, tossing pucks to kids in the stands to look good for the cameras. Me? I’m focused. I move through drills like I’m slicing through the game itself, carving the outcome into the ice one tight turn at a time.
Eyes on the net. Hands loose. Feet fast. My shot rings off the post—just a hair outside. Close isn’t good enough. Close is what gets you benched. Or beat. And it won’t get my name on the Cup.
Coach says I’m intense. He says I need to lighten up. Maybe he’s right. But he also knows better than to tell me to my face. He wants my edge when we’re down a goal with a minute left and the crowd smells victory.
This game—we’re up against Vegas. They’re tough, with no room for sloppiness or mercy. The other team warms up across center ice. I don’t see players. I see targets. I’m determined to find their weak spots. I’ve studied all their plays as if they were a verse from the Bible.
Today, I’m not playing for fun.
I’m just the guy who wins, and I play to dominate.
We stand on the ice for the announcements. I glance up at the Jumbotron. The camera pans to the stands. And unlike my teammates, I’m not anybody’s boyfriend or husband, real or otherwise.
We clear the ice and wait.
Game time.
Neon lights streak across the ceiling, the crowd’s roar cracking through the frozen air like thunder. My skates bite into the surface with that familiar hiss, but everything else? Chaos.
This is it. Game 7. The Stanley Cup. Vegas.
I roll my shoulders under my gear, and sweat is already slicking my spine even though the puck hasn’t dropped.
The Maulers are lined up like a firing squad, each guy in our starting five staring down the Golden Predators across the red line.
Every face is locked in. Every stick tap on the ice feels like a countdown to war.
“Let’s go, boys!” Victor shouts, his voice slicing through the noise. Our captain. Our enforcer. Our lunatic. God, I love that man.
The cold bites into my jaw where the helmet doesn’t cover, but I don’t mind. I want it. I want the chill to anchor me because my heart is trying to beat its way through my ribcage.
I glance at the stands for half a second. Just a blur of gold and white and screaming fans.
Tonight is ours. This is about me. The boys. The Cup.
The ref gives the signal. The anthem’s already a memory, and the opening face-off is seconds away. My knuckles tighten around my stick.
“Finn,” Victor says next to me, tapping my shin pad with his stick. “Let’s make them fight for it.”
I grin. “Hit them hard.”
The puck drops. We exploded forward.
Everything narrows—sound, time, and space. It's just blades, breath, and instinct. Vegas comes fast, trying to set the tone, but we hit harder. We’ve been here before. We’ve fought for this all season. And tonight? We finish it.
The boards rattle—a stick breaks. Someone swears—might’ve been me. Doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is sixty minutes from now…Is the Cup going home with us or them?
And I didn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed.